Years ago, I was having my uncle, Jimmie Carrico, build an addition on to my house. Uncle Jimmie is a true craftsman who can construct most anything that involves wood, concrete or running heavy construction equipment.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t hammer a nail straight into a 2x4 even if my life depended on it. As we were talking about what I wanted done, Uncle Jimmie kept politely saying, “Now, if I was you, I would do this” and “If I was you, I would do that.”

My four-year-old, Cate, tells me, “I’m not sports” and she gets this very honestly not from her father, whom will play anything that involves a ball, but from me. Growing up, I was always taller and not athletic. I would often get frustrated by the never-ending question, “Do you play basketball?” to which my answer would always be “no” in an annoyed tone.

The eyes that once danced with life — eyes that could focus with the intensity of an eagle after its prey or love with the affection of a mother for her baby — now stare blankly at nothing, emotionless. I peer into those eyes, hoping for something: maybe the reboot of a soul, the reemergence of then into now, the return of the Old George I miss so much.

A lot has changed concerning grade school since I last darkened those doors.

Take class field trips for instance. We never had them. Young students now are always going somewhere with a pack of parents in tow to watch over them.

Normally, my wife does this for our family, but one time, she had a previous engagement that prevented her from going on a pre-school class field trip. She didn’t feel comfortable without a responsible adult from our family participating. She couldn’t find a responsible adult, so I was drafted.